


Dusk

by SharkAria



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Mild Smut, Winterfell, Women Being Awesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-09
Updated: 2019-04-09
Packaged: 2020-01-07 05:29:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18404066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SharkAria/pseuds/SharkAria
Summary: Daenerys extracts promises from Sansa, Sandor and Arya as the Army of the Dead bears down on Winterfell.





	Dusk

**Author's Note:**

> This came from me reading an interview about the upcoming Season 8 premiere that mentioned Sansa and Arya sniping at Daenerys and being jealous of her for no reason other than that she took Jon's attention. And I thought...nahhhh. I can write something more interesting than that tired old saw. I added a nice lil SanSan smut biscuit too, just because I fucking can. Happy Hugo, AO3!

“I don’t think I can finish,” Sansa grunts into Sandor’s shoulder. His tunic smells of bonfire smoke.

Sandor thrusts into her once more, his hips slapping against her thighs, and then he presses his rough burnt lips to her ear. “I don’t think I can, either.” He slides out of her, still partly erect, and he eases Sansa down to the floor. He wipes her moonblood from his penis with his bare hand.

Sansa steps away from the wall and lets her bunched skirts fall to the ground. She dons her smallclothes and retrieves the fistful of rags from the nearby chair and slips them between her legs. Silently, she watches Sandor in the flickering torchlight as he adjusts his breeches. 

The first few times, the secrecy and the threat of Cersei’s forces had wheted her arousal, and she had come hard and often. It’s not like that anymore. No one has cared about secrets like this since the Night King’s army breached the Wall and swallowed up Cersei’s forces in a single battle, and the thought of the undead overtaking Winterfell fills her with dread. These days Sansa and Sandor still cling to one another in the shadows, but they are both too scared to make much of their coupling.

Outside, someone blasts the horn twice. Sansa exhales a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding, and Sandor’s shoulders slump. 

“One more night, at least,” Sansa says. The tiny sewing room cannot contain her euphoria.

Sandor doesn’t look pleased, though. “One more night, unless that big blue fucker flies the ice dragon ahead of his slow-moving army. That could be any time, little bird.” 

“Would that not be preferable? If the Night King brings Viserion alone, we will have just the one enemy to defeat.”

“We can only hope he’s that stupid.” Sandor steps close to her and presses his broad palm to her belly. He’s never spent his seed inside her, not once since they began doing this a few months ago, and she suspects that he shares her relief that she is not carrying his child now. “When they blow the horn three times, I’ll report directly to the armory,” Sandor recites. “I won’t be able to make sure you’re safe, so don’t let your sister convince you to do something stupid. Just get yourself as deep into the crypts as you can.”

“That’s not the plan, as you’re quite aware,” Sansa grumbles. She pulls away from him and plaits her tangled hair. “I’m not locking the door behind me until I’ve accounted for everyone who cannot fight.”

Sandor mutters something under his breath that Sansa doesn’t catch, but she supposes that it’s just more of the usual griping about Starks and their bloody honor.

Sansa glances up at the tiny window. The last of the weak sunlight has burnt out, and only the orange glow from the yard bonfires illuminate the bubbles in the glass. “The Queen is expecting me soon. Will you accompany me to her solar?”

“Fine.” He retrieves their fur-lined cloaks from a pile on a table. “Better me than the poxy wildling that the King assigned to guard you.” As he drapes her garment around her shoulders, he leans down and inhales near the exposed skin of her neck. “Don’t stand too close to the Queen, or she’ll be able to smell that you’ve been fucking.”

Sansa ignores Sandor's coarse words. As the White Walkers have drawn near, the rasping Hound has slipped back into his voice more and more. She reaches up and grasps his collar, holding his face close to hers. “I fear for your safety as well,” she says, then kisses him straight on the mouth.

When she finally releases him, the look on his face indicates that maybe he could finish after all, if she gave him another chance, but there’s no time for that.

They leave the room and walk in silence down the staircase and across the yard and into the Great Keep where Jon and Queen Daenerys have commandeered the suite of chambers that once belonged to Sansa’s parents. Sandor looms a few paces behind Sansa, and his heavy footsteps seem to thump in time with her heart.

A pair of Unsullied stand guard at the entrance. The heavy door is already ajar, and as the soldier announces Sansa and Sandor’s presence, Sansa hears Danaerys calling, “Clegane may enter as well.”

They walk in to find Arya standing near the door, still wearing her leather sparring jerkin from afternoon practice. She tips her head in acknowledgement and gives Sandor a bit of stink-eye, although from what Sansa understands the two have mostly settled their differences. Lord Tyrion sits on a stool near a table, reviewing a pile of scrolls. He glances up at Sansa and Sandor, and he nods at them both before returning to his paperwork.

The Queen is propped up in a large chair, her small body supported by brocaded pillows she brought across the Narrow Sea. She gazes down at Little Aegon II, who is nestled in her long blue robes, his tiny silver head nodding as he nurses. The swell of the Queen’s belly is still obvious even beneath the rich loose fabric. Daenerys changes the babe from one breast to the other. Sansa doesn’t flinch, but both Arya and Clegane shift their feet and look up at the ceiling.

“I never imagined that I would have to mount Drogon scant weeks after giving birth,” Daenerys says with a grimace. “But then I never imagined I would hold a human child of my own in my arms.”

A thousand seasons ago, Sansa might have filled the quiet with a declaration of thanks to the gods for the Queen's good fortune, but now she stands silent. Here she is no simpering courtier; she is a soldier in the Queen’s army, waiting for orders, just like Arya and Sandor.

“Lady Arya,” the Queen says, looking up now that the baby has latched. “Just as I must contemplate my coming fear, I must now order that you do the same. If the King or I should somehow fall from one of the dragons --”

“--and let us pray that does not happen,” Tyrion adds and raps his knuckles lightly against the table. For a man who once prided himself on his mastery of logic, Sansa has noticed that her former husband has grown surprisingly superstitious in recent days. But fear changes everyone, she muses as she notices a bite mark she left on Sandor’s throat.

“Defeating the Night King will take more than prayers, Lord Tyrion,” the Queen admonishes her Hand. “Lady Arya, your post as Captain of the Wargs will be an invaluable asset for vanquishing the Army of the Dead. But you must leave that post if one of my dragons loses a rider. You must warg into my dragon and carry on the fight. I don’t need to tell you that if the Night King captures Rhaegal or Drogon, all is lost.”

Arya doesn’t even blink at the idea of abandoning her precious Nymeria or the hundred strong wolf pack under her command. The Faceless Men taught her well. Sansa’s heart bruises a little as she remembers the young sister who screamed to save Lady’s life. Arya bows as she answers, “Of course, Your Grace. I pledge to protect Drogon and Rhaegal above all else.”

“Almost all else,” the Queen corrects her. She turns to Sansa. “Lady Sansa. As the leader of non-combatants, you are Prince Aegon's first protector. The protector of the Targaryen future.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Sansa says. “I have organized his wet nurses, and there is enough dragonglass stocked in the crypts for --”

“Yes, I thank you for your foresight,” Daenerys interrupts. “We have already discussed his immediate defense. But Lord Tyrion has arranged additional protection. In the event that the King and I both fall in battle, you must fight for Aegon’s claim, if you can, but there is something even more important you must do if you cannot.”

Sansa swallows. She wants to slide her eyes over to Sandor to see what he thinks, but she doesn’t dare look away from the Queen.

“I lost one child when I tried to save him for what I thought was his destiny to take over the world. I cannot let this one suffer the same fate.” Daenerys kisses little Aegon’s silver hair. “He doesn't have to rule if that is not his fate. It’s enough just for you to keep him safe and alive.” The Queen’s voice crackles at the edges.

Lord Tyrion slips from his chair and walks toward Sansa. “If, after the great battle, there is nothing left but ashes, there’s still hope for the prince. The priestesses of R’hllor can help you smuggle Prince Aegon across the Narrow Sea, back to Pentos, back to the manse of Illyrio Mopatis’s successor. I’ve made arrangements there, should Aegon need them.” He hands Sansa a scroll wrapped in leather. She accepts it and thinks of how once, long ago in King’s Landing, Tyrion might have joked about the poetry of Prince Aegon reliving his mother’s childhood. But the Imp crumbled away years ago, along with the young girl who might have laughed at the jape.

“Please, I beg of you all,” says Daenerys, and for a moment Sansa sees only a frightened mother, not the Queen of Dragons. “If the worst happens, Clegane, you must help Sansa protect and raise my son as well.”

Sandor is evidently shocked that the Queen has addressed him at all, and he clears his throat loudly before choking out, “Yes, Your Grace.”

“Your Grace,” Sansa says as she tucks the scroll into her cloak. “I pledge to you that if the gods will it, I shall fight for Prince Aegon’s claim, but above all else I will protect your baby's life.” Out of the corner of her eye Sansa can see Arya nod in agreement, and she continues. “You are our Queen, and we love you for that. But even more, you and Prince Aegon are our kin. Our family.” Our pack, Father might have said.

“Family,” the Queen repeats. “That has always been a complicated word to me. But now, with you, it doesn’t seem complicated at all.” Her eyes are shining and she smiles sadly at Sansa and Arya.

Prince Aegon starts fussing, and the Queen dismisses them. After Sansa and Arya and Sandor have walked a ways down the low lit hall, Sansa turns to Arya and gives her a long embrace. Arya freezes for a hair of a second before relaxing into her sister’s arms. Sansa murmurs to her, “Do as the Queen commands, but if the dragon is hit, leave its body. I would have you survive to help rebuild the North.”

Arya steps back. Her eyes are dry and her voice stays steady as she says, “I would have you do the same.” She blinks once and nods to Sansa and Sandor before disappearing down a twisting staircase off to the side.

Sansa walks beside Sandor for another few steps when he stops and takes her hand in his. “How in the Seven Hells does she expect us to get a tiny baby out of Westeros in the middle of winter if everyone and everything is destroyed?”

“I don’t know,” Sansa answers quietly. She squeezes his fingers. “But I will do everything in my power to help. I meant what I said. I love Queen Daenerys, and Jon and baby Aegon. Just as Arya does.”

Sandor grunts, which is as close to a real laugh as she ever heard out of him. He stares down at their entwined hands as he says, “You and me and a baby in Essos. That doesn’t sound like such a bad life. Maybe we should go do it, after Daenerys has conquered Westeros.”

It is probably just a dream of a spring that will never come, and they’ll probably all perish right here in the North any day now. But the image is a nice one. Sansa leans into Sandor's chest and wraps her arms around his waist. “Someday,” she agrees, “I would like to do that.”

*_*_*_*_*_*

[the end]


End file.
